


If These Shadows Remain Unaltered

by pjordha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjordha/pseuds/pjordha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of selfish and embittered Sherlock Holmes’ emotional transformation after the supernatural visits of several Christmas “ghosts.”  Present day setting, possible slight AU as far as being post “ The Reichenbach Fall.” (Written pre-season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If These Shadows Remain Unaltered

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sunshine304’s prompt: _I would love to see a modern "A Christmas Carol" AU with Sherlock as Scrooge and John as... the poor guy who has to work for him? *g* Who'll take the place of Jacob Marley for Sherlock, and what have the other ghosts to tell/show him?_

If these shadows remain unaltered

 

The one good thing about this time of year was that the lab at St. Bart’s was relatively empty.  Sherlock had been scrutinizing a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope for nearly 20 minutes of uninterrupted bliss when the door burst open.  He sighed; even if he couldn’t already identify DI Lestrade by his pungent cologne, he’d know him by his flat-footed gait.  He took another short sniff: Lestrade was overworked…he’d had greasy takeaway less than 2 hours ago…and he was bringing John with him…and John had eaten an orange at lunch, the remnants of which were still on his lapel and chin.  Interesting.

“Ah, Lestrade.  You wouldn’t happen to have a spare set of officer-issue handcuffs, would you?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up from his work.

Lestrade shook his head.  “Depends.  You want them for a case, or are they a Christmas present?”

John cleared his throat and leaned against the side of the counter.  “Don’t look at me.  I already have a set of ill-gotten standard issue handcuffs.  Birthday present.” 

“Naturally.  Look, Sherlock, I was hoping you’d have a crack at this missing boy case.”  Sherlock didn’t bother replying.  The detective inspector gave John a pained look, to which the doctor could only shrug.  “I know it’s not sexy or ingenious or involving a stack of dead bodies, but…this little Tim fellow has been missing nearly 3 days, and it’s all over the news and the papers.  We’re stumped—yes, I know, we’re _always_ stumped, but this one is especially tough.”  Lestrade did something he’d never done; he reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “It’s Christmas Eve.  I’d really love to tell this little boy’s family that we’ve done everything we could.  Imagine if we could bring him home for Christmas.  Isn’t that worth a look at the file?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sherlock replied as he switched out slides.  “After 48 hours most missing persons end up dead, you know that.”

“I know, but.”  Lestrade cleared his throat.  “He’s just a little boy.”

“A little boy whose parents weren’t doing their job in watching him.  Now unless you’ve got something interesting for me, I’d like to get back to my work.”  Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, then threw his hands up in defeat.

“Happy Christmas, John,” Lestrade mumbled as he stormed out. 

John watched him go, then moved closer to his flatmate and hissed, “You really can’t be bothered to just take a look at the file?  What can it hurt?  It’ll only take a second!”

“A second I don’t have, John.  As you can plainly see, I’m occupied with experiments that are infinitely more important to my work than a pedestrian missing persons case.  There’s no challenge, they always end up dead by some manner of their own incompetence, and there’s no reward in the investigation.”

John frowned.  “You mean no money.  I thought you didn’t care about—”

“You’re the one who says we should take more paying cases.  I’m just following your lead.”

“Ok, fine, forget it!”  Shaking his head angrily, John grabbed his cane and started to pace the lab, his psychosomatic limp having just returned.  Sherlock watched him for a few moments before returning to his microscope, but he suddenly found it difficult to concentrate. 

“If your leg is up to it I should like to go down to the sewers to fetch some specimens tonight.”

John stopped with a thud, as if he’d just seen Sherlock sprout a second head.  “Are you mad?  It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Exactly.  It should be easier than usual to find a cab.  Though we may have a difficult time finding one back.  Are those trainers of yours washable?”

John leaned heavily on his cane.  “Sherlock, you know damn well that we’re taking Mrs. Hudson out for dinner tonight before she leaves for her sister’s.  She’s been cooking our Christmas meal for us all day, so the least you can do is—are you listening to me?”

“I suppose I could go it alone, though the last time I went into the sewers I twisted my ankle and nearly fell into raw sewage.  You don’t want to be responsible for me contracting MRSA, do you?”

“Sherlock.”  When his friend didn’t reply, John angrily banged his hand on the countertop.  “Sherlock!  Tonight, of all nights, I just want to relax at home, watch a little holiday telly, and spend time with my—at home.  Like everyone else.  Like normal people.  It’s Christmas, mate.”

“Since when does crime stop for Christmas?” Sherlock scoffed.  “What difference does it make what day it is?  You’ve no children to spend unconscionable amounts of money you don’t have on, trying to buy their affection to make up for the other 364 days you ignore them.  I know you’d rather gouge out your own eyes than watch your sister drink herself into a holiday stupor, and unless Mrs. Sawyer has changed her mind, you won’t be receiving any charitable favors of a sexual nature, either.  So with whom are you so keen on wasting time in front of a televised Yule log, anyway?”

John’s eyes narrowed.  He had that same look on his face as when he realized for the first time that Sherlock wasn’t a hero, far from it.  John looked…disappointed.  “Very well, then.  I won’t bother you further.”  He limped to the door.  Opening it, he looked back and whispered, “Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” before leaving, his frustration lingering in his wake.

“Christmas!  Who needs it?” Sherlock spat as he inattentively reached for a more supplies, distracted by the memory of John’s voice, the disillusioned look on his face.  Pouring test tube A into beaker B, Sherlock only realized seconds later, when a puff of noxious gas rose up from the concoction, that he’d made a mistake.

“Bah!” he sputtered as his face fell flat on the countertop and everything started to go black.  “Humbugggg…”

***

When Sherlock opened his eyes he nearly fell off his stool.  Standing in front of him, looking as pale as a ghost, was Jim Moriarty.

“Oh, darling.  You could have blown this place to bits with that little potion of yours.”  Jim leaned closer, causing the heavy, golden chains he was wearing over his strange, dusty white suit to clang noisily on the counter.  “Good boy.”

Sherlock held still, barely breathing.  “I saw you fall.  There’s no way you could have survived—”

“But _you_ did.  My, you’re resourceful.”  Jim smiled widely, his teeth appearing whiter and sharper than before, but it had been some time since Sherlock fought the man and sent him, or so he thought, to his death.  “You like my outfit?” the man asked, his voice thin and wispy yet still creepy.   He held up the chains around his neck.  “The others said it was too Lady Gaga, but what do they know?”

“The others?  By that would you mean the rest of your pitiful band of accomplices?”  Sherlock sat back and grabbed a nearby notebook.  “You wouldn’t mind giving me their names and addresses, would you?  For my holiday card list—”

“No!”  Jim’s eyes looked as if they were afire, and the room seemed to shake with the vibration of his outburst.  Sherlock attributed the strange goings-on to his recent state of unconsciousness, and made a mental note to buy himself a gas mask.  Or maybe John would…

“Look at you.  Alone on Christmas Eve, shut up in your sad pathetic cocoon of a laboratory, playing with your little vials and test tubes and trinkets…when there’s a whole world of people to play with!”  Jim came closer, and Sherlock actually leaned away.  “People like your little lap dog.  How is John these days?” he spat.  “Still waiting for you to notice him and rub his tummy…or…elsewhere?”

“You stay away from John!  You want me, here I am!” Sherlock growled.

“So protective!  How sweet.  Too bad John doesn’t know that he’ll wait forever.  That you’ll never be the man he wants you to be.  You’re too selfish.  Too preoccupied.  Too busy playing genius anti-hero to think of anyone else.  It’s delicious, isn’t it?”  Sherlock looked around, but there was nothing in the room he could reach quickly enough to take the menace out.  Jim laughed.  “Don’t bother looking for a weapon.  I’ve just to tell you something, and then I’m off again.  So many things to do, so many people to…haunt.”

“Tell me what?”

Jim looked at his nails; they were long, black at the tips.  So unlike him.  “Oh, just that you’ll be visited three times tonight.  Should be a fun time!”

“Visited by whom?  What do you mean?”

Jim sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Three more like me will come, try to warn you not to be such a stick in the mud, blah blah blah, change your ways, yadda yadda, hope to escape your fate…phth!”  He smiled wickedly, such a severe, preternatural smile, and Sherlock was suddenly very afraid.  “But it won’t work.  You can’t change who you are—you won’t want to.  You enjoy the delicious solitude, your mental cage of misery.  You’re an animal of habit, of your mind, of your hunger.  Why, you’re perfect, Sherlock Holmes…just…like…me.”

If he’d had anything to eat for the past 2 days, it would have risen in Sherlock’s throat.  “No.  I am nothing like you!  And I’ve had enough of this.  I’m obviously exhausted, and my mind is playing tricks on me.  I require a bit of sleep.  Just a catnap and I’ll be fine.  Then I’ll go the sewers alone and get my samples.  And everything will continue as it always has—it’ll be fine.  Fine!”

Jim’s smile widened even more—it seemed to spread beyond the borders of his wraithlike face.  “Exactly.  I’ll be waiting for you…partner.”  With that, Jim Moriarty seemed to dematerialize right before Sherlock’s eyes.   After a moment, after his heartbeat returned to normal, Sherlock walked on shaking legs over to the most comfortable chair in the lab and fell upon it in a daze.

“Dreadful apparition.  Just need a bit of sleep.”  He was out in an instant, his last thoughts before falling away of John, his belly exposed to Sherlock’s tickling hand…

***

Sherlock woke with a start to the shrill ring of his mobile in his jacket pocket.  When had he changed the ringtone to a grandfather clock bell?

“Wakey, wakey, Sherlock!”

“Gah!”  Sherlock covered his heart as if it would beat from his chest.  Finding Mrs. Hudson standing over him in the St. Bart’s lab in the wee hours of the morning was startling enough.  That she was wearing a long white nightgown, a shiny glass tiara on her head, and was floating several inches above the floor merely added to the shock.  “Mrs. Hudson…why aren’t your feet touching the floor?  And why on earth can I see _through_ you?”

“Why, my dear, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” she replied sweetly, her head cocked as if she intended to reprimand him for leaving her house a mess.  “I have many things to show you tonight, so please come with me.”  She held her translucent hand out, but Sherlock only stared at her with disbelieving eyes.

“The levitation trick is easy, I’ve done it myself.  What I can’t figure out is your ethereal appearance,” Sherlock stated quickly, his mind whirring to keep up, ahead, away from the fear.  “Of course!  I’m dreaming!  I still haven’t woken up from that dreadful Moriarty dream—”

“I am no dream!”  The ghost cleared her voice, smoothed her nightgown down, and readjusted her smile.  “You were warned I would come, and here I am.  Now we’ve got to go!  I’ve got lots to show you, young man, so don’t dilly dally!”

“I suppose you’re going to show me scenes from my past so that I will learn to change my evil ways.”  Sherlock yawned.  “I’ve no time, Mrs. Hudson, but I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Right!”  The ghost reached out with her long, vaporous arm and grabbed Sherlock by the earlobe, pulling him quickly to his feet…and higher.  Sherlock looked down at his feet floating over the floor, and gasped in surprise for the first time in months.

“What—my God!  Is this…for real?”

The ghost smiled triumphantly.  “Told you!  We are off.  And please, Sherlock, clean this lab up when you return!  It’s a pigsty!”

Not one second later Sherlock found himself standing in the middle of his childhood living room.  And sitting on the floor in front of him was…himself, at about 5 years of age.

“Mummy!  Mummy!  Look what Father Christmas has brought me.”  Sherlock watched in wonder as his 5 year old self jumped to his feet and held a miniature science kit above his head like an Olympic medal.  His mother sat on her high-backed chair like a queen overlooking her prince, 30 years younger yet still with an air of restrained grandeur beyond her age.  “Just what I wanted for Christmas!”

“How cute you were,” Spirit Mrs. Hudson lamented, but Sherlock paid her no mind.  He smiled at his childhood enthusiasm; he’d forgotten he ever had such a thing.  Then he approached his mother.

“Mummy!  You’re looking well…if a little sad.  Have you gotten into the brandy already?”  She didn’t respond, only smiled grimly at the large tree, the decorations, and the copious amounts of gifts.

“They can’t hear you,” the spirit explained.  “Nor can they see you.  It’s only a memory, not interactive!”

Sherlock walked around for a moment, just taking everything in.  Then his 12 year old brother came into the room, and Sherlock laughed out loud at the young man’s pimply round face.

“The ravages of adolescence did not miss him,” the adult Sherlock quipped, even as his younger self jumped to his feet to meet his big brother.  Young Mycroft sat on a comfortable chair and bade Sherlock to jump up onto his lap.  To the adult Sherlock’s surprise and chagrin, the boy did it enthusiastically.

“Mycroft, I hope that you and Father will help me collect slugs and beetles for my experiments!  We shall have so much fun, won’t we?” the little boy squealed.  Sherlock nearly gagged.  “When will Father come downstairs, Mycroft?  I want him to see all my fun toys!”

Young Mycroft cleared his throat.  “Listen to me, Sherlock.  Are you listening?”  The little boy fidgeted, clearly anxious to get back to his gifts.  His brother gently turned the boy’s face so that their eyes met.  “I have something to…Father won’t be coming downstairs.  He won’t be coming at all.”

“Why not?” asked the little boy.  “Is he still visiting the North Pole, like he was last night?”

“No,” Mycroft stated plainly but softly, “he isn’t visiting the North Pole.  He has left us—you, me and Mummy.  Father has decided to leave the family.”

The sneer fell instantly from the adult Sherlock’s face.  Memories long buried came flooding back, and the nostalgia that had just moments ago been so pleasant now felt like a boulder on his chest.  “Mrs. Hud—whomever you are—I want to leave now.  Please.”

“He can’t leave,” the five year old cried, his little face reddening.  “I want Father!  Bring me Father!”

“Please, I don’t want to stay,” Sherlock whispered to his ghostly companion.  “Now, please.”

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured as he wiped the boy’s wet cheeks.  “It’s not our fault.  He didn’t want to live with us anymore.  There’s nothing we could have done.  We have to be strong, you and I, to help Mummy.  Do you understand?”

“No!  I don’t understand!”  The little boy’s voice broke into sobs.  Mrs. Holmes resigned herself to silent tears of her own.  “I don’t want to be strong…I want Daddy!”

The spirit touched Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Oh, you poor dear.  Could it be that your dislike of Christmas stems from this sad memory?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from young Mycroft lifting his 5 year old self into a tight embrace.  “While I admit that reliving such…things is not pleasant, I don’t think one should assume that my distaste for the triviality and commercialism of this holiday can be fully attributed to…any one…moment.”

“I see.  Well, I suppose we should be going, then,” the ghost offered as she turned her back on the little boy sobbing into his older brother’s shoulder.  “What is that he’s saying?”

Sherlock sighed, rubbed his eyes, and said as softly as he could, “He’s saying ‘Make him come back, My My.’  That’s what I called my brother when I was little.”  Sherlock followed the ghost out of the room, only stopping to look back briefly at his sad family.

When Sherlock turned back around, he found himself in his university rooms, which he shared with—

“Victor! Victor Trevor, where are you?”  Sherlock’s mouth fell open as his 20 year old self came racing into the room, his arms full of books and paperwork.  “I’ve just been to the police!  Victor!”

A young man Sherlock’s age rushed in carrying a pile of hot laundry.  “Sherlock, where’ve you been?  We’re going to miss the flight if you don’t get moving!”

“Isn’t your friend handsome!” the spirit peeped.  Sherlock smiled proudly as he flopped down on his old bed, taking in the mess, the smell, the sophomoric disorder of his past.  His 20 year old counterpart sat down at his desk and watched with downcast eyes as Victor shoved clothes into an overstuffed duffle bag.

“Shut, damn it.  Sherlock, c’mon!  Where’s your luggage?”

University student Sherlock crossed his legs and looked at his watch.  “Remember that museum theft that’s been in all the papers?  The one I’ve been following?”

“Yeah, it’s all you’ve been talking about for weeks.  Don’t tell me you’ve finally gotten the police to listen to your hypotheses about it?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Sherlock stated proudly.  “I’ve just come from the police.  They had to listen to me once I told them I’d located the missing antique jewels and had been kidnapped by the thieves who had ties to organized crime—”

Victor’s eyes flew open.  “What?  Kidnapped?  Sherlock!”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.  “Never mind that.  They came and I solved the case!  I did!  Just like I always said I could!  The police would have never figured the case without my deductions, Victor!”

“I see.”  Victor smiled down at his friend with pride.  “Well, congratulations, mate.  I know this makes you happy.”

“You’ve no idea.”

Victor’s smile soured quickly.  “Ok, so now that that’s sorted, can you get your arse into gear and get packing?”

Sherlock suddenly looked quite sheepish.  “Packing?”

“Yes, packing!  You can’t spend the winter break in Switzerland with just the clothes on your back, mate.  Hurry up; we’ve got to get to the airport as soon as possible!”

“Switzerland for Christmas, oh, how posh!” Christmas Past chirped.

Sherlock the student stood reluctantly and went to his closet as Victor rushed around throwing last minute toiletries into his bag.  Reaching for a sweater hanging in a closet full of suits, Sherlock lowered his hand and muttered, “Victor.”

“What?  Why aren’t you hurrying?”

“The thing is, now that I’ve proved to the police—and myself—that I can use my deductions for more than just pissing people off, I’d like to…I _want_ to try more.  The police, idiots that they are, hinted that if I ever have helpful information again, they wouldn’t necessarily be averse to hearing it.”

“Yeah, so you’ll do it when next term starts,” Victor grunted as he struggled with the zipper on his bag.  “What does that have to do with our trip?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes.  “Christmas time, of all times, there’s so much going on.  So much crime.  I’d be useful.  I could help…the police.”

“Right, the police.”  Victor hauled his bags to the floor and pulled them to the door before looking back at his classmate, his friend.  “So, you’re really not coming?  After we’ve planned this trip for months, after my father gave me hell about going off with you instead of going home for the break?  You’d rather play amateur detective than spend Christmas with me…alone?”  When Sherlock didn’t reply, only cleared his throat nervously, Victor shook his head and slumped against the door.  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  You always did care more about your experiments and deductions than you did about…people.”

“He always was so dramatic,” the present day Sherlock murmured wistfully.

“I was really looking forward to this.  I thought you were as well.”

Young Sherlock rose from his chair and approached his classmate and friend—his _only_ friend—with pleading eyes.  “I was.  But this is important to me.”

“And I’m not,” Victor said, not asked.

“You’re the only one who _is_ important to me,” young Sherlock whispered.

“But not enough, apparently.”  Victor opened the door, then turned back just in time to catch the dampness in his friend’s eyes.  “I can’t do anything for you.  You’re about to get what you’ve always wanted.  I don’t want to stand in the way of that.  I hope you have a Hap—er, productive Christmas, Sherlock.”  Both Sherlocks froze up as Victor Trevor leaned forward to awkwardly embrace his classmate, leaving a soft, sighing kiss on the corner of the frazzled young man’s mouth before turning and rushing out the door with a whimpered, “Good bye.”  Young Sherlock watched the space with his hand on his lips.  The elder Sherlock looked away regrettably.

“How sad,” stated the ghost.  “Remind you of anything…recent?”

Sherlock watched his doppelganger throw himself to his desk and start scribbling angrily in his notes.  “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Hudson.  What does this have to do with John?”

The ghost smiled knowingly.  “I am not Mrs. Hudson, and I didn’t say anything about John.  But _you_ did, dear.”

Sherlock walked numbly over to the Ghost of Christmas Past.  “Spirit, remove me from this place.”  Several feet behind him the phantom of his past threw down a large chemistry book and spat, “I hate Christmas!  Bah!”

Christmas Past tsk-tsked.  “Sherlock, I do hope you’ve taken something useful from this.  You can’t change the past, but you can always do something about the future.”

“Please!  I can’t bear to…I want to go back.”  Sherlock closed his eyes, but he could still hear the faint sobs from behind him.  “Please.”

***

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he was back at the lab.

“If these are the dreams that haunt me tonight, I’ll not dream at all,” Sherlock stated emphatically as he reached into his jacket for a nicotine patch.  All he found was his mobile, and as soon as he took it out it beeped with that same eerie ring tone.  “What is going on tonight?”

“Nothing a good dose of Christmas cheer cannot fix!”  Sherlock shook his head, not looking up as he addressed the familiar voice in front of him.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?  Don’t you have some weather patterns to fix for one fat bearded white man in a red suit?”

“Who are you calling fat?”  Sherlock looked up and immediately wished he hadn’t.  The figure in front of him looked just like Mycroft, though he was dressed in a dark blue, pin-striped, fur-lined robe reminiscent of Santa Claus.  There was a holly wreath atop his head, and his trusty umbrella was shaped like a horn of plenty.  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, not this Mycroft person of whom you speak.  I don’t know anything about your brother.”

“If you’re not Mycroft, then how did you that he’s my brother?”

“Oh, shut up and put you coat on,” the spirit rejoined as he led Sherlock toward the door.  “It’s chilly out tonight.”

An instant later Sherlock was standing in the middle of the Metropolitan Police Service headquarters, where Donovan, Anderson, and all the regulars were imbibing and carousing around an oversized punchbowl.

“Office party,” the ghost said down at Sherlock.  “Looks like fun.  Don’t you think you should be here in body rather than in spirit?”

“I was where I wanted to be before you and the others disturbed me,” quipped Sherlock.  “By the way, how can you be a ghost if you’re not dead?”  A sliver of ice suddenly went right through Sherlock’s gut.  “You—Mycroft _is_ still alive?  And Mrs. Hudson?”

“Don’t you worry yourself about your friends.  You should be paying attention to this lot right now.  Oh, look at that Sally woman, throwing herself at young Mr. Anderson.”  The spirit clucked his tongue.  “You know she only pretends to hate you because you don’t return her…well…amorous attentions toward you.”

“Yes, I know.”

When Lestrade stomped in looking sour, his subordinate officers all fought to offer the DI drinks.  He accepted a beer and took a generous swig.

“Only one person can make you look like that on Christmas Eve,” Anderson shouted.  “What has that lunatic done this time?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  “If you’re referring to Sherlock Holmes, then all he did was be himself.”

Donovan slithered over to voice her opinion.  “Why you thought he’d help with the Tiny Tim case is beyond me.  That freak only helps if it’s something really deranged—probably to find pointers for all his future crimes!”

“Yeah,” Anderson squawked, “but at least that means he isn’t interested in young boys!”

“There’s always that.”

“Aw, c’mon, guys.  He’s not that bad,” Lestrade admitted.  “He has helped us out more times than any of us would choose to acknowledge.”

The spirit patted Sherlock on the shoulder.  “And you find your cheerleader.  This fellow seems to respect you…a little.  You couldn’t find it in your busy schedule to help him out on this case?”

“No,” Sherlock replied.  He ignored Anderson, Donovan and the others.  Their opinion of him mattered little.  But the look on Lestrade’s face—something about it was hard to ignore.

“That’s _disappointment_ ,” the spirit whispered down to Sherlock.  “Same as someone else you know.”

“Why do you ghosts keep bringing up John?  What does he have to do with any of this?”

The spirit smiled.

Sally Donovan gulped down her third of many drinks.  “Face it.  The Freak is too self absorbed to take time out of his schedule of chasing suspects almost as insane as he is to help find an innocent boy—at Christmas time of all times!”

“Selfish bastard,” Anderson added.  “Those poor parents could have had their son back by now.  He could have at least bothered to look over the file!”

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against a doorframe.  “That boy is most likely dead by now.  Why take the parent’s hope away, now of all times?”

The spirit raised an eyebrow, looking more like Sherlock’s brother than ever.  “You mean at Christmas time?  You mean to tell me you’re refraining from helping with the case because you actually mean to alleviate this little Tim’s family’s suffering?”  Sherlock cracked his jaw.  “My, my.  Sounds like someone has a bit of the holiday spirit after all!”

Sherlock glanced through the doorway to the notice board, where pictures of the presumed kidnapped Tiny Tim were plastered.  The boy was small for his age, and had the sweetest grin.  “If you truly are a spirit, perhaps you can tell me if…well…will Tiny Tim…is he still alive?”

The ghost offered Sherlock a serious look, one Sherlock hadn’t seen on his brother in 30 years.  “If I told you that remained up to you, would you care?”

Before Sherlock could think of an answer, the pleasant din in the room came to a screeching halt when Lestrade bellowed, “C’mon, everyone.  A toast to Sherlock Holmes!  Half of the worst cases this year he’s solved for us—so let’s hear it for Sherlock!”

Lestrade’s toast was met with a mixture of grumbles and inebriated laughter, but Donovan’s voice could be heard above them all.  “Why should we toast to the Freak?  He only uses that alien brain of his for good when it suits him—and the rest of the time he’s too stingy with it to bother.  He should be put away with the other loonies, if you ask me!”

Sherlock had heard it all before, but still.

“C’mon, Donovan,” Lestrade mumbled.  “It’s Christmas.  Show the man a little charity.  Even if he doesn’t have any for Tiny Tim.”

“May we go now,” Sherlock muttered, suddenly unable to look at the Met officers in the face, even though they couldn’t see him. 

“Might as well,” the ghost sighed dramatically as he turned away from the room.  “Follow me.”

Sherlock almost had to ask the spirit where they were; 221B Baker Street was nearly unrecognizable with all the Christmas decorations plastered everywhere.  In the last 36 hours since Sherlock had been sequestered in the lab, John had found and decorated a tree, strewn some garish lights about the sitting room, thrown some red and green knick knacks amongst Sherlock’s experiments, and placed a Santa hat on the skull.

“Now I know I’m dreaming,” Sherlock laughed.  The spirit chuckled along with him, until John entered from the kitchen wearing a hideous reindeer jumper.

“Now here is someone in the holiday spirit!” exclaimed the ghost.  “Why aren’t you here enjoying it with him?”  Sherlock ignored the question, rather more intent on watching as John limped over to his chair with a mug of what looked like mulled red wine.  Mrs. Hudson had gone all out.

Sherlock sat on the chair across from him.  “This feels entirely too much like eavesdropping.”

“Yes,” replied the spirit.  “How delightful!”

“Thank you for the wonderful meal, Mrs. Hudson,” John exclaimed to the empty room as he raised his mug.  “I haven’t eaten so well since…I don’t even know when.”  He sighed lazily.  “I suppose it’s just as well that I’m alone—Sherlock wouldn’t have eaten a thing anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock replied.  “Something in that kitchen smells…tolerable.”  John stared at the Christmas tree lights and snuggled down into the chair, smoothing down the most likely itchy fibers of his garish jumper.  Something about his profile against the twinkling lights reminded Sherlock of a time when Christmas was something to look forward to.  He wondered momentarily what John’s past Christmases were like.

“About as uncomfortable as yours,” the spirit said, “though young Dr. Watson doesn’t take it out on the entire world, as you do.”

“Would you mind terribly staying out of my head?”

John set down his wine and picked up a newspaper.  It was covered with images of Tiny Tim.  He cursed and threw the paper down, then picked up the remote to switch on the telly.   He channel surfed until he came to a news brief; a candlelight vigil was being held in front of the home of the little Tim fellow.  John cursed again.

“You bastard,” he grunted.

Sherlock laughed.  “That’s not a very nice thing to call a child abductee, John!”

“I know your experiments are important, I know that.  But you’re not even on a case now!  Couldn’t you be bothered to help look for this lost little boy?”  John was speaking angrily to the chair across from him, and for a second Sherlock wondered if John could actually _see_ him there.  “And after all the work Mrs. Hudson put into our dinner—that she didn’t have to make for us, by the way—the least you could have done is show up for it!”

Sherlock lowered his eyes from John’s indirect though still intense gaze.  “I’m sorry, John.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John grunted as he heaved himself out of the chair, and again Sherlock wondered if he were really invisible after all.

“His limp seems to have returned,” remarked the spirit.  “Quite badly, I’m afraid.  Does it only recur when he’s upset?”

“Upset with _me_ , you mean,” Sherlock whispered.  He watched solemnly as John limped over to their tree, stuffed into a corner and haphazardly trimmed.  John had needed his help to reach the higher branches, obviously.  When John bent down to pick up from under the tree a large red box with “Sherlock” written on it, Sherlock rushed over and impulsively reached out as if to shake his flatmate.  “What are you doing?  We never said anything about exchanging gifts!”

“Perhaps young Dr. Watson just wanted to do something nice for you without wanting anything in return,” the spirit explained drolly.  “Imagine that—thinking that it’s better to give than to receive.”

Sherlock wanted to hiss at the ghost, but the sadness in John’s eyes kept him from it.  “I don’t understand, John.  What is it you want from me?” he asked, as if he expected an answer.  John returned the gift to the floor and looked over to the couch where Sherlock spent so much time thinking.

“Why do you make it so difficult?” whispered John as he slowly went about tidying up, turning off lights, giving up the hope that his flatmate would return for the holiday.  Sherlock watched solemnly, his throat tight.  When John was just about to go up for the night, he turned to give a last, longing look at his decorations, his tree, his Christmas.  He whispered, “Merry Christmas…wherever you are,” and limped up the stairs.

The spirit cleared his throat.  “It appears Dr. Watson had only one person in mind with whom to share his ‘televised Yule log.’  Would it have been such a sacrifice to spend a little time with your…friend?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, no need to think on it, “it wouldn’t have been at all.”  As soon as he said it, his mobile bleeped again in his coat pocket.  He looked down only momentarily to address it, and when he looked up again he was no longer in his flat.  A sick sense of dread befell him as he observed the swimming pool where he and John had nearly died ages ago.  Christmas Present was nowhere to be found, but up ahead there was a shadow.  Sherlock’s blood ran cold as a tall dark figure emerged from the very same changing room as John.  There was no Semtex—all that was visible of this phantom was a long black hooded cloak.

“I suppose you are the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Sherlock asked with quaking voice.  The spirit neither spoke nor nodded, but simply lifted one thin, bony hand and pointed toward the darkness of the indoor pool.  “I am to follow you…and see shadows of things yet to come…that may or may not happen.  Is that so, Spirit?”  The phantom turned its head toward Sherlock.  There was no face, no eyes.  Nothing but a void, and Sherlock would have enjoyed being swallowed up in its mystery, if he weren’t so terrified of what he was about to find on the other side of it…

***

The first place the spirit took him was Lestrade’s office.  It was Christmas time again, though the mood in the Met was less jovial than it had been before.  Equipment had been upgraded several times, and the entire area had been expanded.  Obviously in the future crime had taken an upswing.  Sherlock was surprisingly a bit disappointed.  And then Lestrade entered carrying an old box of files.  Sherlock nearly called out to him, until a young officer he didn’t know rushed into the room.

“Will you be needing any more of the old unsolved case files, Detective Chief Inspector?” asked the officer.  Sherlock smiled a bit—so the old man finally got promoted.

Lestrade, now much older and with pure white hair, shook his head as he gingerly sank into his chair.  “No, I’ve got all I need, Constable.  Thank you.”

“Any retirement plans yet?”

“Not as such.”

“Well, the lads and ladies are all waiting out there to give you a proper Christmas send-off.”

“I’ll be just a moment,” replied the DCI as he removed the lid from an overstuffed file box.  As the officer walked away, Sherlock sank down in the chair across from Lestrade’s desk, the one he always used when he’d tell the detective inspector how stupid he was.  No such thoughts racked his brain, though.  He watched with a mixture of pity and remorse as Lestrade flipped through file after file of unsolved cases, calling out the names of missing persons, disappeared dementia patients, suspected teen runaways, dead prostitutes, junkies who’d OD in alleys under mysterious circumstances…and 1 little boy who disappeared at Christmas many decades earlier.

“I wish we’d found you, Tiny Tim,” Lestrade whispered as he took out the file and set it on the desk in front of him.  “I’m sorry we failed you.  We failed all of you.  We just weren’t smart enough.  We needed help that we just never got.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed at the hooded figure behind him.  “I understand, I get it.  Please, can you take me away from here?”

“Your cases were just too mundane, I suppose,” Lestrade continued.  “I hope you’ve all found peace…wherever you are.”

“Please, Spirit!”

“Lord knows…I’ll never have peace…knowing I couldn’t help you.”  Lestrade looked straight ahead, directly into Sherlock’s eyes.  “I hope, for his sake, that he can find some.”

Before Sherlock could plead again for leniency, he was taken without warning to a new place.  It was a large home, one he found only somewhat familiar.  When he approached a large, heavily yet tastefully decorated great hall, he recognized it as his brother’s country house.  An enormous Christmas tree stood in the middle of the hall.  Underneath it three children were hastily unwrapping gifts while their parents looked on from their stately armchairs.  Mycroft, now in his early 60s and nearly completely bald, smiled wearily at his children, while his significantly younger wife—whom Sherlock once knew as “Anthea”—laughed at their antics.   Mummy Holmes, now in her 90s, was asleep in a Jaguar-inspired wheelchair being pushed gingerly by a 20something, muscled private male nurse.  Sherlock’s mouth fell open.

“This looks…wonderful,” he whispered.  “This is how it should be, yes?  Does this mean that the future will turn out well for all of us?” he begged the lumbering phantom behind him?  “Well…for me?”

“Daddy, what is this?” screamed the youngest, a little girl about 4, as she brought a small package over for her father to inspect.  “It says ‘From D.R. W-a-t-s-o-n!”

“Very good, my dear,” declared Mycroft as he lifted the child into his lap.  “You’ve just spelled the name ‘Dr. Watson.’  Excellent reading, Shelly.”

“Who’s that, Father?” exclaimed the middle child, a boy of about 8, though he never looked up from the gift he was opening.

“Dr. Watson is an old family friend,” Mycroft explained.  The wrinkled smile fell from his face.  “He was once Sherlock’s, er, partner.”

“ _Partner_?” Sherlock whispered, blinking fast.  “Spirit…what did my brother mean by—”

“Sher-lock?” asked the baby again.  “Who’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft cleared his throat.  “My brother.”

The eldest, a young man who looked about 13, stood up and looked at the gift in question.  “Oh, yes.  Uncle Sherlock.  You kids don’t remember him, but I do.  Didn’t he come when I was the lead in the Christmas play, Father?”

“No, he did not,” replied their mother, rather harshly.

“Did I meet him at a wedding or family dinner, then?”

“I think you’ll find that you’ve never met your father’s brother,” she explained as she patted her husband’s hand.  “You may have seen him in the photo albums…or newspaper clippings.”

The middle child, fiddling with a massive bow, asked, “If he’s our uncle, why have we never met him, Father?”

“I should quite like to meet him,” the eldest boy exclaimed.  “It would be nice to have an uncle!”

Mycroft smiled sadly at his family.  “He had ample opportunity.  But now I suppose it is too late for that.”

“Why, Daddy?” asked little Shelly, her pale eyes looking entirely too much like her uncle’s.  “Why is it too late?”

“Yes, why is it too late?” Sherlock cried, his scared eyes searching the void of the spirit for answers.  “Is it too late for me?  Can I not do something to change this future?” 

The specter moved only its eerie hand, pointing to the left.  Sherlock turned slowly in that direction, until he found himself in a graveyard, standing just a few yards away from a funeral site.

“Oh, Spirit—what is this?  I don’t want to be here!”  A sense of trepidation overcame him, and his instinct to run away was only slightly outweighed by his morbid curiosity.  He moved closer, the foreboding spirit never far behind, until he was standing amongst the few mourners.  The adults were clad in black, but the children wore red and green jumpers beneath their coats.  A Christmas time funeral.

“He was a dutiful husband and father,” exclaimed a woman as she released a single lily on top of the casket in the grave.  “He always provided for us.”  She looked down at her left hand and quickly removed her wedding ring.  “Too bad we weren’t enough for you,” she spat as she let the gold band fall into the grave.

“Oh!”  Sherlock watched the woman turn and walk away with tears streaming down her face.  “That’s not what…this doesn’t have to be!  I can change things, can’t I, Spirit?”  A young man stepping closer to the grave caught his eye.  Something about his face and demeanor struck a chord of familiarity within Sherlock.  “Spirit, who is this man?”

“Goodbye, Father,” the man murmured with lowered eyes.  “You were successful, and you were prolific, but I know you were not fulfilled.  Perhaps if your heart hadn’t been broken when you were younger, you’d have made different choices.  You might have been…happy.  I do so wish you could have been happy, Father.”

“How could he have been, when all he cared about was his work?” a young woman whimpered as she took what must have been her brother’s hand.  “I remember him being so affable at first, but over the years he grew so cold and distant.  Only his work gave him comfort, but eventually even that could not satisfy him.”  A little boy with curly red hair pulled on her coattails.  She smiled down at him sadly.  “I hope I won’t make the same mistake with my family.”

“Maybe it’s not something we can help,” replied her brother.  “Maybe it is our fate to follow in our father’s footsteps, to be stingy with our time, with ourselves.”

His sister shivered.  “I hope you are wrong,” she said as she turned and led her son away.  The young man watched her go, then looked back at his father’s grave.  Sherlock’s mouth ran dry, for he feared he recognized the look on the man’s face…had he already begun suffering his father’s cursed fate?  Was his heart, already, growing cold?

“Spirit!” cried Sherlock, shuddering from head to foot. “I understand now!  The case of this unhappy man in the ground might be my own.  I’ve certainly led a life tending this way.  What can be done?  Is there meaning to my being here?  Am I to be associated with these sad people in the future?  What will become of us all?”

As the rest of the deceased’s family disappeared into the mist, the spirit lifted its ghastly hand one last time, and pointed angrily at the stone at the head of the open grave.

“Oh, God!  Wait, Spirit, wait,” begged Sherlock as he averted his eyes.  “Before I learn the name on that headstone…answer me one question.  Are these the shadows of the things that will be…or merely of those that _may_ be, only?”  The ghost stood as stone, its bony hand pointing down where Sherlock could not escape from looking.  “Please…I beg you…tell me that this is only a possibility…that I can change my—”

Sherlock fell to his knees, lifted his head, trembling as he went, and followed the finger to read upon the headstone the name…

JOHN WATSON.

“No, Spirit!  Oh no, no!  Not John!  Not my John!”  Sherlock’s blood ran cold, colder still when he looked up into the void of the spirit, which finally drew back its black hood to reveal its face— _Sherlock’s_ face!  “What is this—you’re me?”

“Isn’t it…delicious?” the spirit hissed.  The face, body, lips, eyes were of an old, withered Sherlock.  The voice, the heart, the soul was that of Moriarty.

“No!” Sherlock gasped.  “I can’t let this happen!  I am not the man I was—I promise!  Spirit, take pity,” he begged, clutching at the specter’s black robe, at the feet he hoped would never become his.  “Why show me all this if I can’t change it?  I would never want John to become such a miserable soul…I would never want him to become like me!  He mustn’t.  I mustn’t!  Oh, Spirit, can’t you see that I care too much for him to let him end up this way?”

The hand that was pointing to the grave, to Sherlock and John’s future, started to tremble.

“Please!  Tell me that I may still change these shadows you all have shown me!  That by changing my heart…I might change my future!”

The spirit’s hand trembled even more.  Sherlock jumped to his feet and grasped the spirit by its robe, looking his possible ghastly future straight in the eye.

“I will keep the spirit of Christmas in my heart, now and all year!  I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!  I will not shut out the lessons that they have all taught me!  Oh, Spirit, tell that I may wipe away the writing on this stone!”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come smiled down at Sherlock, and then simply faded into the stale air of the St. Bart’s lab.

***

Sherlock gasped himself awake.  He was standing in front of his microscope, as he had been last night, with his fists out before him like they’d just been holding onto something for dear life.

“What?  I’m back?  Am I back?  What happened?”  Sherlock turned round and round, bewildered and frightened and overjoyed all at the same time.  “What time is it?  Is it morning?” he shrieked as he raced to open the blinds.  Pulling them with all his strength, he exclaimed happily at the early morning light streaming into the usually dark lab.

“Aha!  I haven’t missed it!  It’s not too late!  The shadows of the things that would have been are gone, I know it!”  Finding his belongings, Sherlock rushed to lock up the lab.  “Won’t the cleaning service be happy to know I’ve finally locked the place up after hours!  Happy Christmas to them!”

Racing out to the street, Sherlock threw his arms out to take in the overcast sunshine.  “Oh, what a beautiful day—taxi!”  He chased after a few, but though they were available, none would stop for him.  “Those drivers are surely on their way home to be with their families!  Can’t blame them for that!  A most wonderful Christmas to them!”

When a black cab finally stopped for him, Sherlock flitted inside, shut the door, and stated, “Kind sir, please tell me; what day is it?”

The driver looked at him oddly in the rearview mirror.  “It’s Christmas Day, of course.”

“Yes, I knew it!  The spirits have done it all in one night!  I haven’t missed it!  Hurrah!”

“Ok.  Where to then, lad?”

Sherlock took out his phone and furiously began texting.  “I’d like to go to the nearest open shop.  And you should know that if you raise the head of your bed by only 10 degrees, it will greatly diminish your snoring at night!”

The driver pulled away from the kerb in a daze.  “How did you…thank you, sir!”

Sherlock felt his cheeks go pink.  “You’re quite welcome.”

***

John had been up for a little while, just having some breakfast and watching a little morning telly when the door burst open and his flatmate ran up the stairs with a spring in his step John hadn’t witnessed since the last serial killer case they’d solved.  When Sherlock saw him, he dropped his shopping bags to the floor with a thud.

“Good morning, Sherlock.”  John’s curious gaze fell from Sherlock’s face to the bags and back.  “You went to the shops?  Why?”

“I, er, had a few things to pick up,” Sherlock replied, now too nervous to meet John’s eye.  “I would have come sooner, but I…was a bit sidetracked.”

“Oh yeah?”  John set down his tea and approached his friend cautiously.  “Down in the sewers, were you?  Or out chasing down Moriarty’s henchmen again?”  Sherlock was about to reply when the program on the telly was suddenly interrupted by a newsflash.

“We interrupt this Christmas special with breaking news,” stated an excited newsreader.  “The best news!  Tiny Tim has been found, and he’s alive and well!”

“Would you look at that?”  John watched the telly, but Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from his friend’s profile.

“Reports are still coming in, but so far we know this: Timothy Cratchit was found in an abandoned house, and his abductors were almost single-handedly apprehended by someone who works with the Metropolitan police—but who refused to be identified.”  John’s mouth fell open as news footage showed DI Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan leading suspects away in handcuffs, while a tall man in a long dark coat tried to hide his face with a newspaper.  When the camera came dangerously close to the man’s face, it was suddenly knocked to the ground.  The audio picked up a familiar deep voice exclaiming, “That’s what you get for…I mean, er,—Happy Christmas!”

John walked over to his chair, turned down the audio and let the remote drop.  He then walked back to his flatmate.  The limp was gone.  “What happened, Sherlock?”

“I…well.”  Sherlock came closer, stared down at his partner, thought about all he’d been through, the previous night and all the previous nights in his life…and since he’d met John.  “It’s Christmas.  Christmas happened,” he whispered and then launched himself forward, taking John in his arms in the tightest bear hug he’d ever given.  “You mustn’t change one thing, John,” he whispered quickly down into soft sandy hair.  “You’re perfect just as you are!  Never let your heart go to stone!  It would be such a travesty.  You have so much love to give.”  He sniffed, and laughed at his own sentimentality.  “Even if it’s not to me.”

John pulled back, flummoxed.  “What did you just say?”

“I’ve changed, John!  I mean, I’m fundamentally the same person and I daresay that’s not too shabby, but I want you to know that I’m no longer going to be stingy with the one thing I can offer—myself—and you should know that even though it only took 10 minutes and very little brainwork to solve the Tiny Tim case, I still had an overwhelming sense of accomplishment—nay, _fulfillment_ —just finding that young boy and reuniting him with his family, and I want to do more work like that, at least from time to time, because we can all be more charitable, not just at Christmas but all times of the year, and I want to try to keep Christmas alive all the time, well, not the garish decorations and scratchy reindeer jumpers, but the spirit of the holiday, and I want Greg to get promoted to Commissioner, and I want to know my niece and nephews, and I want you to be a good husband and father, even if it’ll kill me when you get married, but I’d never step in the way of your happiness and—why are you staring at me like that?”

John’s smile was ear to ear as he reached up to take his friend’s face in his hands.  “Sherlock.  Have you brought me Christmas presents in those bags?”

Sherlock bashfully replied, “Your favorite tea, some of those biscuits you like, and a package of socks was all I could get at the only open shop!  I’ll get you something real after—”

“This is the only Christmas present I want,” John whispered as he leaned up.  The kiss was soft at first, both of them requesting permission, asking if this was really happening, with lips closed and chaste.  Then one of them sighed, and that was it; they were kissing for real, lips wet and parted, breath harsh and coming faster.  Sherlock held John to him, tasted John’s tea, his breakfast, his Christmas.  Yes, he thought, _this_ was truly delicious.

When they finally parted, John caught his breath and whispered, “What’s gotten into you—not that I’m complaining at all—I just want to know why you—” Sherlock cut him off with kisses, several times, and John let him, happily.  “No, really,” he breathed against Sherlock’s throat.  “I want to know who or what to thank for bringing you to me.”

Sherlock considered for a moment telling John what had happened, but he wasn’t sure he believed it was real himself.  And in the end, it didn’t matter.  “I just got the Christmas spirit, John.  Finally.”  He squeezed his friend and partner tighter, the brief glimpse of the dreaded future flashing like lightening before his eyes.  “And I don’t ever want to lose it.  Or you.”

“Oh, you won’t.”  John started to lean in for another kiss when his brows knitted and he asked, “But, uh…what did you mean about nephews?  And me having kids and a wife?”

“Never mind that,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips.  “Kiss me.” 

John obliged, holding on dearly before pulling away and breathlessly proclaiming, “What ever happened to you, thank God for it.  You—”  More increasingly desperate kisses.  “Oh.  Yes, thank God for it.”

“Indeed.  God bless us.  Everyone.”

John’s smile quirked up at the corners as he nuzzled Sherlock’s nose.  “Oh!  Now I get it.  Were you watching _A Christmas Carol_ on telly last night?”

Sherlock rubbed his hands lovingly over John’s head.  “ _A Christmas Carol_?  Never heard of it.”

 

THE END

 

Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays!

Copyright December 23, 2011 by Pjordha

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12/23/2011


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